Stone Cold Dead by James Ziskin (great novels of all time txt) 📕

way with fourteen points and five assists. I had been running a temperature since morning, but the nausea was new. I had felt like hell all through the first half, but the real trouble began just as the referee tossed the ball skyward for the second-half tipoff. A crawling, cold sweat on my neck, general discomfort of my insides, and a swallowed gag convinced me that the evening was not going to end well. I had the good sense to spring from my seat in the second row, climb over my fellow spectators, and dash for the exit before it was too late. I bounded up the stairs to the corridor ringing the gymnasium above and shouldered my way through the door of the girls’ bathroom. There were three or four girls primping in the mirror, but I hardly took notice. I made a beeline for the first stall. My nausea was cresting, and there was no time to lose. The first stall was locked. I lurched toward the second, covering my mouth and squinting through watering eyes. It was free, but filthy. Summoning God knows what determination (and intestinal fortitude), I managed to dive into the third stall before the floodgates released their plenty. After three or four healthy heaves, I became aware of two firm hands holding my long curly hair clear of the rush of vomit. Or nearly, as I discovered a few minutes later.

Once the convulsions had subsided, and I had wiped my mouth and nose with a wad of tissue, I collapsed against the wall of the toilet and closed my eyes. A gentle hand stroked my head, and I heard a soft voice comforting me. I opened my eyes and turned to see my savior: a pretty girl with green eyes and dark hair, pulled back on both sides by tortoiseshell barrettes, leaving long bangs hanging down to her eyebrows in front. She was about fourteen or fifteen, with red lips and a pink nose from the cold weather. She smiled at me, and that’s when I saw the silver braces on her teeth and the black chewing gum sticking fast to them like a thick tar.

“Are you okay now?” she asked. I nodded. “I sent my friends to get the nurse. Can you stand up?”

“Just help me to the sink,” I said. “I want to splash some cold water on my face.”

The young girl lifted me off the floor and guided me to the bank of washbasins where she released me and let me fly solo. Grasping the porcelain sink with both hands to steady myself, I examined my reflection in the mirror. I looked away; didn’t want to throw up again. I dug into my purse, looking for a comb, and removed the pint of Dewar’s and placed it on the edge of the sink. Then I pulled out a lipstick, a package of gum (Doublemint), and my Leica, before I finally located the comb at the bottom.

“I have to go now,” said the girl. “The nurse will be here soon.”

I washed my face and slipped a stick of gum into my mouth. A few minutes later, I had combed my unruly hair and painted my lips. I was presentable, if somewhat green. Repacking my purse, I realized the bottle of whiskey had vanished.

The kindly nurse, Mrs. Golnik, and the faculty chaperone, Miss Barnett (one of the girls’ gym teachers), escorted me to the infirmary. Mrs. Golnik clopped down the corridor in her sturdy heels, supporting my left elbow, while Miss Barnett squeaked along in sneakers and a Jack LaLanne jumpsuit, holding my right. To complete my embarrassment, the assistant principal, Mr. Brossard, arrived to investigate the incident. I assured them I was fine to see myself home, but they insisted I call someone to pick me up. Since it was Friday, I knew Fadge would be up to his fat elbows in the usual ice cream, hot fudge, and egg creams, so he was out of the running. I dreaded calling Charlie Reese. His wife, Edith, always sounded put out when I phoned, and, all things being equal, I preferred to keep my boss in the dark about my more spectacular bouts of public disgrace.

“I’m fine now, really,” I said, giving it one last try. “I can drive myself home.”

Miss Barnett volunteered to accompany me, but she was a bit too keen and transparent in her motivation. Mrs. Golnik stood before me, flashed a light into my eyes, then grasped my jaw firmly in her right hand and cocked my head upward to examine my pallor. She flattened the back of her fingers against my forehead to gauge my temperature, then frowned, gave a curt shake of her head, and said no. Mr. Brossard, a stocky man in his mid-thirties, considered the options from a few feet away. He stood there squarely in a plain brown suit and wingtip shoes, arms crossed over his ribs, legs splayed just beyond their normal stance, like a football coach watching his charges practice.

“You don’t look well, miss,” he said finally. “We can’t let you leave by yourself.”

“Ellie?” a voice called from the doorway. “I thought I saw you. What are you doing here?”

Stan Pulaski: deputy sheriff, ardent admirer, and my hero. Thank God. Stan would drive me home and probably pay me a few compliments on the way, too. “Gee, Ellie, your hair looks nice with sick in it.”

Mrs. Golnik and Mr. Brossard were satisfied with my escort and gave me their blessing to go. Miss Barnett sighed as I took my leave.

Stan drove me home in his cruiser and helped me up the stairs. My landlady, Mrs. Giannetti, witnessed the whole thing, and I heard all about it the next day.

“What were the charges, dear? Well, at least you were completely dressed.”

I wanted to invite Stan in for a coffee, but I felt like vomiting again, and he was on duty besides. He left me at my kitchen door, bowing and replacing the